The One That Got Away
by Whimsy and Ink
Summary: "How long would it burn? How long before the memory of his touch would fade once again?" When accomplished author Hermione Granger unexpectedly sees Draco Malfoy at a Ministry gala with someone new on his arm, the memory of their brief, intense love affair a decade before threatens to undo her. Yet their lives have gone in different directions, and you can't change the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

This story is inspired by and loosely follows the narrative arc of Katy Perry's _The One That Got Away_. I strongly encourage you to listen to the song before reading… it will get you in that proper nostalgic place, filled with longing, regret, and a dash of romantic angst. ;)

It was while writing this fic in an obsessive haze over one weekend that I realized fanfiction can help us work through our own past in ways that so many of the other usual remedies fall short. I'm not sure at what point I realized this story was my own- altered, but mine. And today I am shaking free demons that have haunted me for nearly a decade because I wrote, and I didn't stop writing until it was finished.

This story started as a one shot, but it got a bit too long and will be published in two parts.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or Katy Perry... though I'd probably have ultimate cosmic power if I did.

* * *

Hermione stared at the empty dance floor with unseeing eyes. She sat primly in her seat, gloved hands folded in her lap. An elegant cream and gold ball gown swished pleasantly around her ankles as she crossed them under her chair.

God, she was bored.

The warm candlelight and blended murmuring of several hundred voices wasn't helping keep her awake, either. How many of these Ministry galas had she attended over the last year? Ever since she'd published her newest textbook supporting the integration of Dark concepts- theory, _not_ application- in Healer training at St. Mungo's, she was a celebrity again. Surprise, controversy generated widespread popularity. But she'd learned that as a child.

The band tuned their instruments delicately to notify guests they were about to begin their after dinner set. The low strain of strings undercut the conversation in the room. There was a stir in the crowd.

Hermione glanced over at Ron, who was slouched down in his chair, his bowtie already loosened and a bottle of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead at his lips. One hand was hooked in his robe pocket casually. He was chatting with Seamus Finnigan, who'd been seated at their table as well.

Forcing a playful smile onto her face, she leaned over and touched his knee lightly. "Ron, it looks like the band is getting ready to start." She ran one finger up his thigh. "What do you say… lady's choice?" She was doing her best. She was flirting with him, for Merlin's sake. Hermione could count the number of times she had _flirted_ on one hand.

But God… it was an effort.

Ron shot her a good-natured smile. "Have I ever danced at these things, Mione?" He returned easily to his conversation with Seamus about Quidditch.

And that was that.

She sat back stiffly, sighing internally. Another gala, another night forcing a look of polite interest as she watched the traditional Old Blood dances. She glanced down at herself, recognizing the time and effort she'd taken with her appearance had been wasted.

At the thought, a faint sense of guilt washed over her. That wasn't fair. She touched her sleek french twist self-consciously. Ron always loved how she styled her hair for these events. "Smart and put together," were his words, as he flashed the boyish grin she'd always adored.

It was just too early in the evening for her to be this _bored_. And a little restless. And thirsty. She needed another glass of wine.

She'd taken to red wine a bit more than normal lately.

With another look at Ron, she decided it'd be best not to interrupt him. She slid out of her chair and made her way through the crowd of guests beginning to stand and move toward the dance floor. Glancing behind her, she observed that he hadn't noticed her departure. Good. Let him visit with Seamus for awhile longer.

The further she got from the table, the more the tension in her chest eased slightly. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No reason to be so dour. She'd noticed Parvati Patil-Macmillan earlier, and she knew Neville and Luna were there tonight, as well. She had plenty of opportunity for good conversation with old friends. Harry and Ginny had an excuse to skip out, of course- seeing as they were expecting their second child any day now.

"Thanks," she told the bartender with a smile as he handed her a glass of merlot. Drifting it beneath her nose, she inhaled the rich, earthy scent deeply. Turning around, she searched the crowd for a familiar face.

And that was when she saw him. She froze, her wine glass at her lips. Slowly, her arm lowered as she stared outright.

He was in a small group clustered together on the other side of the dance floor. His platinum blonde hair stood out in the crowd, though he was wearing it differently now. It was cut a little shorter and tousled stylishly. He had one hand tucked in his pocket and held a glass of champagne with the other.

He was chuckling as he listened attentively to the Minister. She instantly remembered the first time she'd prompted that easy, charming grin. That smile had been the tipping domino that would soon after topple everything she had thought she'd known about him. The memory alone seemed to tip another domino deep within her.

He looked _good_. She could tell even at a distance that he'd filled out a bit, but he looked solid, not soft. His shoulders were broader, and his upper arms nearly strained against the fabric of his tailored dress robes.

Her mouth was dry. Was this the first time she'd seen him in all these years…? Surely not. What should she do? Should she approach him- say hello? There was a foreign fluttering somewhere beneath her ribcage at the thought.

And then she noticed _her_. Tucked near his side was a willowy, raven-haired beauty who looked vaguely familiar. Hermione's stomach hardened into a knot as she stared at the woman in shock. His companion was stunning and perfectly made up, with satiny, straight black hair that fell past her shoulders in piles. Hermione swallowed some long buried pang of inappropriate jealousy. She hadn't heard…

She watched in dismay as Malfoy's free hand absently grazed the nape of the woman's neck above her backless gown. It trailed downward slowly, almost sensually, finally resting in the small of her back. She watched with morbid fascination as his fingertips curled slightly, grazing the woman's creamy, alabaster skin.

It had been ten years, but in that moment, it was as though no time at all had passed. Hermione remembered every sensation his hands on her skin provoked. She could _feel_ his long fingers ghosting over her bare back; her stomach clenched tight like it hadn't in years, and the wave of longing that followed was so intense she nearly doubled over. Thank _Godric_ he was occupied in conversation. She wore her longing all over her face, and even after ten years, she knew he would be able to read her like a book from across the room.

As she stood alone in the middle of a bustling ballroom, she wanted nothing more than to roll back the clock all those years so she might be able to change one moment. She knew the exact one. Just a single _moment_ in the history of time- one she had not known would set the course of her future. That moment was all that she lacked and all that she yearned for.

To have that night back. To change the outcome of their last argument. To say just one more, vitally important thing before he left, slamming the door behind him. That harsh sound resonated through the chambers of her memory, and she blinked away a sudden blurriness.

Her longing crawled through her stomach and up into her lungs as she watched his hand turn a slow circle on the young woman's lower back. While the pain was practically debilitating, there was something achingly sweet about the memory sweeping through her of his hands on her bare skin. It seared her even still, across the gaping distance these long years had driven between them.

Was it so grandiose, to alter just one, solitary moment in all of history?

* * *

 _ **Ten years before.**_

It was the summer after Hogwarts when they first met.

Or rather, when they met again.

Hermione was working part time at Flourish and Blotts while attempting to sort herself out after the war. It had been five months and she still had no idea what came next. She knew she wanted to take her NEWTs, and so she was completing her seventh year coursework by owl, but she didn't have a clue what came after.

For over a year, she hadn't trusted herself to think about or hope for an "after."

Harry and Ron had both dismissed the idea of sitting for their exams with a laugh. For Harry, it was the thought of returning to a place that had been home for so long but now held countless memories of death and destruction. He wouldn't say it, but she knew he still blamed himself for the War. Ron on the other hand had never cared one bit for school and had jumped at Kingsley's offer to join a small cohort of old DA members training to be junior aurors.

And really, neither of the boys had the discipline for self-directed learning.

Hermione pushed herself to her feet as the bell above the door dinged. It was a Tuesday in November and the store had been nearly empty all day. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm, mid-afternoon light as she turned.

 _Him_. He stood just inside the doorway, a defensive sneer on his face as he eyed her through narrowed lids. His sudden reappearance in her life startled her momentarily. It had been at least three months since she'd last seen him, and that at a distance in the large courtroom. August, was it, or July?

"Granger. What a surprise," his voice dripped with disdain. "That Hogwarts education is going to good use, I see. Saving the universe one book at a time?"

His words had no effect on her anymore.

"Still as pleasant as always." She arched her eyebrows at him. "As your saleswoman, I am obligated to ask how I can help you." She held no remaining traces of disgust or anger toward him- her testimony at his trial had been the turning point for _that_ \- but she had no reason to be _nice_.

Malfoy hesitated, his sneer deepening. She had always hated the way that ugly look marred his otherwise handsome face.

And then suddenly it fell away, replaced briefly by a flash of uncertainty, and finally, an impenetrable mask. "I don't need your help."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you don't. You can show yourself around then." Not sparing a moment, she turned back to the new box of books she was shelving.

Malfoy wandered the store for nearly an hour, gliding silently from one aisle to the next. Hermione had actually forgotten he was there when he finally huffed impatiently from a circular display nearby. She jumped.

He smirked. "Startle easily?"

She glared at him. "What are you still doing here, Malfoy? Buy something or get out."

"Now, now. Is that good customer service?"

She glanced pointedly at the small gift item he was gripping tightly in his hands. "Will that be all?"

He wrinkled his nose at the trite book of poetry and set it back down. " _Fine._ I'm looking for something in particular. _Why_ doesn't anyone else work here?"

She moved briskly toward the register where she would be able to sort through their master catalog for his query. "It's 2:53pm on a Tuesday. The weather is unseasonably lovely. What do you think?"

"It was a rhetorical question," he replied through gritted teeth.

She now stood at the catalog, her back to him. "Title?" she asked, with a backwards glance.

He hesitated again. She recognized the same flash of uncertainty as before. It sparked her curiosity.

And his next words set it aflame.

" _Muggle Theory and History_."

"What?" she breathed.

Behind her, he closed his eyes, wanting more than anything to melt into the ground, or to apparate, or just to leave. Damn the swotty Gryffindor to hell. "And an application. I need a job application."

* * *

Over the next month, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy learned that apart from blood and upbringing and personal preference on most classic literature, they were more alike than they were different.

They were each wickedly sharp and opinionated, for one. His first few weeks had been torture for them both as he grumbled and complained at being forced by the Ministry to take an "utterly useless and insulting job, don't they know who I am" as a requirement for his parole. But soon their bickering moved from schoolyard grievances and the weekend schedule to things like their favorite classes in school and the ethics of studying Dark magic for Healing.

One day, Hermione found herself engaged in a fiery argument over whether Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte was the better 19th century female novelist. She realized with a start that while Malfoy relied on his feigned boredom and arrogance, and she gave herself entirely to her passions, their banter was rather entertaining. It made her very uncomfortable.

Hermione would analyze this later as she tried to fall asleep. Their personalities should have been like oil and water, but in that day's battle of the wits, it had just _worked_. She didn't understand it, but as she lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, she decided she liked arguing with him. It sparked more of her curiosity.

And why had Malfoy of all people read Austen _and_ Bronte anyway?

From that day forward, something shifted between the two rivals.

They began to make casual assumptions about the other in passing conversation. Their arguments were overlaid with knowing glances and subtly playful jests. And oddly enough, their work schedules somehow began to align.

Hermione didn't realize what was happening. All she knew was that this qualified as one of the handful of times she'd kept a secret from her two best friends and not felt guilty.

Draco saw what was happening a mile away. All he knew was that she was unlike any girl he had ever known. And that terrified him.

"Granger, your hair is particularly atrocious today," he complained one day as they leaned over the counter together at the front register. Her thick, fluffy curls seemed to defy gravity. They had somehow drifted toward him and were clinging to his shoulder.

She cocked her head toward him and flashed him an amused grin. "You could move, you know." She nudged him with her elbow. " _You_ don't have a customer at the moment, but I need to get this purchase order finished."

There was a tingling on his arm where she had grazed him.

His grey eyes locked on hers. Her smile faded slightly when he failed to respond.

Truly and honestly against his will, his hand rose to her jawline. He gently tugged on the rogue curl and tucked it behind her ear. As he smoothed it down, his fingertips seemed to linger a beat too long on her earlobe before returning to the counter. "I could move. But I fancy my current spot, thank you."

Hermione blushed and looked back down at her ledger. She couldn't force the small smile from her lips. "I suppose you're stuck then. I think I might fancy my spot, too."

* * *

It wasn't long at all before their tentative friendship morphed into something more.

Malfoy took two weeks off at Christmas to vacation with his mother and aunt in southern France. It was somewhere on Day Three that she realized she missed him. She moped around the shop sullenly. She poked at her dinner silently when she visited the Burrow. Even Harry could barely muster a smile from her. Her friends had no idea what was wrong, but they made sure to include her in all their holiday plans to keep her spirits up.

On December 31, Draco showed up at the end of her shift in designer jeans and a dark grey button-down shirt. A rough 5 o'clock shadow lined his jaw.

When she saw him standing at the counter in Muggle clothes, she lost her breath.

He asked her if she'd join him for New Year's Eve. She said yes without a moment's hesitation, easily forgetting her plans with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Pleasantly surprised, he smiled at her for the first time- a charming, crooked grin, utterly disarming in its sweet openness- and said she would have to trust him. The words spilled from his lips casually, teasing, which was startling. More startling was that at his childlike smile, she already did.

They apparated to a trailhead in southern Wiltshire and hiked through the woods to a cliffside overlooking a wide valley. Once there, he took her up on his broom, her trembling hands gripping the thin stick of wood as he rose slowly to help her acclimate to the height. They sat side by side swinging their legs and talking for over an hour about past holidays and their favorite winter memories before the fireworks suddenly came to life around them as the clock struck midnight.

"Oh!" she cried as she jumped slightly. The broom shook.

"Startle easily?" he asked with a grin, placing a steadying hand on the small of her back. She glanced away in embarrassment. When she turned back a second later with a retort on her lips, his hand moved down to her hip and slid her toward him.

She was still facing him, his hand still on her hip. Their gaze searched one another's, their warm breath mingling in the cold air between them. The colorful, popping fireworks reflected on their faces and in their eyes.

His touch was burning through her robe, and she suddenly realized she had known this would happen all along. She had wanted it for weeks, more than anything else, and she hadn't been able to admit it to herself.

"It's my favorite holiday tradition. My mother would bring me here every year when I was a child, before Hogwarts. There's a small Muggle village to the east that has put on this show for the valley every year for over 20 years." They glanced together in the direction he was pointing. He paused. "My father would never come."

There was something meaningful in his tone. He was saying something else, as well- something more. _I am not my father._

"It's almost magical. A Wiltshire secret- a gift to the lonely farmers in the valley." He spoke softly, almost reverently. His words hung in the air. "Maybe there's a sort of beauty in hidden things." He gazed down at her carefully, searching her eyes for something she couldn't place.

She didn't think she agreed with him, but it was hard to formulate her thoughts just at that moment. His eyes were steel warmed over a fire. She parted her lips to say _something_ , but he leaned in closer and then his mouth was on hers and she forgot the words.

Kissing him was like lightning sparking in her veins and smooth dark chocolate on her tongue all at once. A low sound in the back of his throat rolled forward into hers and seemed to vibrate through her entire being. He ravaged her mouth in a way she had never been kissed before, sucking her full lower lip between his and biting gently. She felt her blood begin to roil hotly.

Then the delicate strains of a familiar song enveloped them, closer and more intimate than the booming fireworks above. She paused and pulled back to catch the lyrics.

"In a town full of rubber plans

To get rid of itself…"

"Your favorite song," Draco murmured, suddenly self conscious. "You play this in the store at least once a week, and you know all the damn words. It's bloody sad, can't figure out why you like it so much, but what the hell."

A deep hunger for him began to build in her stomach. "It's beautiful because it's so honest and _true_ ," she whispered. "Like you. It's perfect."

She lifted a hand to graze his prominent cheekbones with her fingertips. Her thumb outlined his chiseled jaw. "God, you are so beautiful. I love the stubble."

"I'll make you take back your words," he growled lowly, his eyes flashing with a matching hunger. He lowered his mouth to her neck, scratching his jaw and his wet mouth along her collarbone. Her breath was more shallow now as the friction ignited a flame just under her skin.

She was suddenly scrambling to be closer, pressing her body flush against his- the fireworks still playing on his pale skin like colored shadows- the slow, reflective music wrapping around them. The broom tipped slightly, sending her tumbling into his lap. Her hands were on his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, in his hair. His hands ghosted lightly against her skin under the hem of her shirt. She drew in a sharp breath and arched her back. Everywhere he touched was on fire.

"She looks like the real thing

She tastes like the real thing

My fake plastic love…"

Somewhere on the ground beneath them, Ron's jack terrier patronus ran in circles, yipping at the sky with an angry message from her friend. She'd stood him up and now he was all alone on New Year's Eve with Harry and Ginny, a miserable third wheel.

She never saw it. She wouldn't have given it a second thought if she had.

They made out on his broom, to Radiohead.

* * *

Their secret affair was a flame that caught fire to a parched forest. They spent every spare moment together and could barely keep their hands off one another at the bookstore.

Twice they were almost caught in the back storeroom in the midst of toppled supplies. In each instance, Draco barely had time to throw a " _Colloportus_ " at the door before their manager rattled the handle. They chuckled breathlessly as they rapidly restacked paper towels and flattened their hair.

Once they were almost caught by a customer in the dim _Maladies and Memory Spells_ section where he had her pressed against a bookshelf they were supposed to be re-sorting. Hermione barely had time to shove him away and straighten the hem of her shirt before an elderly woman came sneezing around the corner. They fiddled wittlessly with the books on opposite sides of the aisle, but Malfoy shot her a stern look behind the woman's back as she passed between them. Granger grinned, deftly correcting the misaligned buttons near the bottom of her blouse.

They argued constantly.

During stolen moments before work taking breakfast in her flat, they argued over politics and public opinion as they browsed their shared copy of the _Prophet_ while she sat in his lap.

At work, they argued over what they were reading. They were now reading the same books, which made that infinitely easier.

After work, they ate takeaway in the dark as they sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom and argued in a whisper about what would happen if their families met.

But they also _laughed_. Draco was sure he had never laughed as much in his life as he had since they'd found one another.

She teased him unceasingly about his pureblood upbringing- the outdated rituals and traditions, the expectations of both cultured restraint and relentless ambition, his overly aristocratic table manners. She teased him about his pompous expressions and the way he held himself ("It's called _good_ _posture-_ you should get some," he retorted each and every time, which dissolved her into laughter for some reason.) She teased him about his custom hair gel and his tailored robes and his dragonskin loafers.

He on the other hand, had not been raised to delight in ridiculous things as she had. So instead he complained, which he _had_ been raised to do.

He complained about her superhuman ability to recall anything she'd read at a moment's notice. He complained about her chicken scratch handwriting and the torn bits of scribbled parchment he found jammed in all of her books. He complained about her sentimental heart. And he complained most ardently about her atrocious hair, as he wound her curls around his fists where they lay on the rug in front of his bedroom hearth.

These were each met with a knowing turn of her lips that always blossomed into a brilliant smile. His complaints were his confessions; the litany of reasons he could not- would not- stay away. She knew this.

Somehow, she brought him back to life.

He'd been bitter and confused after the War, angry at everyone and carrying the weight of his upbringing, his mistakes, and his father's reputation on his shoulders.

He'd been content to wait out his house arrest in London, work the useless damn job, and show up for the Muggle Appreciation night class at the Ministry. Then he was planning to take his wand, go to the summer home in Marseille, and live out his next decade in solitude.

But she was changing that. She was passion and paradox, filled with a fiery tenderness for underappreciated things. The first time she cried in front of him, he'd gotten up and walked straight into her floo. Now her tears twisted something in his chest.

She cried during Muggle movies and Muggle theatre. They spent hours discussing how the shows made her _feel_. One day he found himself staring at the selection he'd made for their standing movie night- a five-hour version of _Pride and Prejudice_. He rolled his eyes so hard he got a headache.

She lived with a sense of totally disciplined purpose and that sappy Gryffindor zest for adventure. They could apparate across the United Kingdom as long as he logged it with his Probation Auror, which he had never had one inkling of desire to do. She of course insisted on it. On their days off, they apparated to the cliffs of Dover and Stonehenge ("Wizards," he'd said dismissively and turned away as she stood there gaping at the monolithic stone slabs) and to Sterling Castle and as far north as the Isle of Skye. There she'd had them traipsing about all day, and they had gotten caught in a rainstorm.

Damn it all but she loved to hike. She credited it to her months on the run with the Golden Boys and took him to the Forest of Dean, the Lake District, Cotswold Way. "Apparation might be my favorite form of magic!" she told him happily over her shoulder as he untangled himself from a cobweb on the trail behind her. Malfoy had never owned a pair of trainers in his life, let alone hiking boots.

Indeed, he was more amazed every day at the influence she was having on him.

And with each day, he grew more convinced that she was much too good for him; that she deserved so much more than a reformed Death Eater haunted by nightmares and uneasy stares and self-pity.

Each day, it was becoming harder to ignore that foreign inclination toward selflessness and sacrifice. It warred with his hunger for more of her; he could never give her up.

In mid-April, they were wandering through Diagon Alley late one night after a closing shift, their shoulders, elbows, and hips occasionally brushing as though they simply couldn't keep from touching one another. They had their alibi- if anyone saw them, they'd say they were making a deposit at Gringotts together for work.

But really, they weren't at all concerned. Rather they were feeling the heady effects of their infatuation with one another. When they were together, they were reckless and invincible. When they were together, they needed nothing more than a bottle of wine and a bed. Hell, a bottle of steaming stout and a dark alley would do.

Hermione glanced at the large clocktower at the end of the street. Its hands had just passed midnight.

"It's my birthday," she announced into the silence suddenly, grinning at him. He glanced past her at the clock.

"I see," he said with a slow smile. "And how would you like to celebrate?"

She looked around the empty street with a glint in her eye. The cherry blossom trees had just come into bloom. A smattering of petals skittered across the ground at her feet in a light breeze.

Suddenly her face lit up. She grabbed his hand boldly and pulled him across the empty street.

They stumbled into the small parlor, tangled in each other's arms. They were drunk on one another, and it emboldened them. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and dropped a kiss just behind her ear. She shivered and beamed up at him as she reached out to tap the bell on the grimy counter.

And on her nineteenth birthday, they got matching tattoos.

* * *

In late June, they both passed their NEWTs with flying colors. Hermione insisted it was because of her rigorous study schedule. Draco reminded her how most of their study sessions had ended.

To celebrate, Draco collected a bottle of his father's best aged firewhiskey from the darkened study after his mother had gone to bed and met her on the roof of Malfoy Manor.

"Not like my father will be drinking this any time soon," he stated drily, uncorking it with his teeth and spitting the cork off the edge of the house.

Hermione glanced at him with a frown. "How long is his sentence?" she asked softly. They had never talked about his dad.

He gave her a long look before glancing away and taking a deep draught from the heavy glass bottle. "Life. No Kiss, though. He gave up enough names to ensure that." He grunted darkly and handed her the bottle. "Turning on friends and family to save his own ass. But that's Lucius for you."

She scooted closer as she took it, gazing down into the amber liquid and swirling it thoughtfully. "But that's a good thing, Draco. Those men and women needed to be brought to justice. And his sentence gives him a lot of time to think, doesn't it? Now that Kingsley only has Dementors doing executions. Maybe he'll reform."

He looked at her again, his expression softening. "I doubt it. But you really do believe the best of everyone, don't you?"

She shrugged, finally taking a sip. The spicy whiskey burned on the way down but left a warm, cinnamon aftertaste. "I didn't always. But that was before you. You've taught me a lot about what it means to find the best in people. To hope for something more."

His expression changed briefly into something unreadable. She had learned his typical look of disinterest was nothing more than self protection. He wore his emotions and responses to her in those brief flashes after she spoke.

"And what do you hope for, Granger? What comes next for you? You'll quit the bookshop, I imagine."

She steadied her racing pulse with another swig and handed the bottle back to him. They had never talked about the future. The past seven months had been for them stolen time; a set-apart world where only they existed.

But it was necessary to talk about the future if they were going to make this work somehow.

"Well," she hesitated. "I'm not sure. The NEWT results said I'd do well as a researcher or Healer. It mentioned a particular aptitude for potions, arithmancy, alchemy, and experimental magic."

He nudged her with his shoulder. "Potions, eh? I wonder where you learned that." They had spent countless hours in late winter experimenting in her tiny kitchen before the weather had turned nicer. She blushed as she remembered how many potions they'd burnt because they'd gotten _distracted_ on her countertop.

He went on. "But what do _you_ want to do? Can you really see yourself Healing, working with patients all day, not having any time for your books or writing?" He knew she'd been working on drafts of several essays. Every time she had an idea, she would obsessively neglect meals and sleep to get her thoughts on paper. He'd taken to carrying a bar of chocolate, a pencil, and a bundle of parchment in the pocket of his robes for when the moment called.

She was quiet for so long he thought she hadn't heard his question. He was opening his mouth to repeat himself when she finally answered. "No, I don't think so. You're right about the books and the writing. But besides that, Healing keeps me in one place. I've always been interested in traveling. I think it was the World Cup back in fourth year when I first realized just how many magical cultures I hadn't encountered yet. There's just so much to learn, perhaps new potions ingredients that can be harvested." She gave him a long sideways glance. "How about you?"

He didn't take as long to respond as she had. Clearly, he'd given this some thought. "There's an opening on the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. I'm good at fixing broken spells and navigating mismanaged magic. Learned plenty of that the hard way." He rolled his eyes. "Plus my pureblood upbringing has ensured a certain level of diplomacy. All the better for dealing with Muggle law enforcement." He winked at her.

Her head was spinning with questions. "You would willingly work in a field position with direct Muggle interaction? But what about your potioneering?"

He gave her an amused grin. "Did you really think I cared about that blood purity shite anymore? And potions… that's a hobby. I can tinker in my free time, maybe experiment with what you bring back for me." He nudged her again with a smile and took another sip of the whiskey.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. He seemed so _fine_ with her leaving. "There's an open Healer apprenticeship at St. Mungo's…" she said, trailing off uncertainly. "If you're going to be in London… maybe I should apply for that."

He stared at her in the dark. "Hermione, I would never ask you to stay here for me."

She pressed her leg into his. "But I want to be with you," she whispered. "I don't want this to end. I like us. I think I might love us." She was staring hard at the scuffed tips of her trainers.

He turned to face her, balancing the bottle carefully on the shingles beside him. When she wouldn't look at him, he took her face gently in both of his hands and tipped it up in his direction. She worried her bottom lip as her eyes finally met his.

"I love us, too. But more importantly, I love that you are bloody brilliant and driven and a damn lot braver than I am. If you want to travel, and scratch out notes no one else can read, and crawl around in the jungles of Nepal testing the magical properties of Himalayan cannabis, I will only love you more for it. Just promise me you'll remember to eat."

Her eyes widened. "You love me?"

His heart pounded. "I do." Once again, he suppressed that niggling feeling in his stomach that told him he would have to make a decision soon- a decision that would be for her greater good. A decision that would at last reconcile the months she had spent hiding from and lying to her friends, her parents. A decision she would hate him for.

But tonight, he was too selfish. Tonight, he would tell the truth and damn them to misery later.

"I love you more every single day. I love your insane hair. I love how distracted and negligent about personal hygiene you are when you have an idea." She punched him lightly on the shoulder, but held his gaze, captivated.

He laughed and stroked her nose with one finger. The hand still holding her chin massaged her softly. "I love the way your eyes flash when you're cross at me. I love that our minds seem to work in perfect sync with one another. But most of all, I love that you have brought more passion and heat into my life over the last six months than I've _ever_ experienced before. And I will never stop loving you, not when you beg me to because I'm insufferable and I've lost all my Slytherin mystique to sheer romantic folly."

He leaned down to drop a soft kiss on her lips. Before he could, she held up her finger and blocked his mouth. "Wait," she breathed. "Let me just… seal this moment in my memory. This is a perfect moment." She closed her eyes for a second, and he counted the faint freckles on her eyelids.

"You're a perfect moment," he murmured.

One eye peeked open. "You have no idea what you do to me." She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled herself closer. "I love you, and I could shout it from the rooftops. I will one day. I'll shout it from _this_ rooftop. Everyone will know how much I adore you, and they can go screw themselves."

Laughing lightly, he dropped a kiss on top of her head.

But inside, his stomach was gnawing at itself with that darkness. He knew what would have to happen. But for tonight, he would be selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Tonight, he would have her for his own and put off the inevitable for another day.

 _Used to steal your parents' liquor and climb to the roof._

 _Talk about our future like we had a clue._

 _Never planned that one day I'd be losing you..._


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione set her wine glass down heavily on a tall table at the edge of the dance floor. She hadn't been prepared for this tonight. How was she to have known he would be here?

She glanced from side to side, suddenly feeling exposed; overheated. Any moment, he would sense her stare… At the tell-tale a prickling along her spine, her eyes trailed back to him. Sure enough, he had spotted her from across the dance floor. She saw him raise one eyebrow in her direction.

The crowd was beginning to fill in, and she lost him momentarily as people swarmed between them. She craned her neck to find him again.

When he came back into view, he wore an amused smile. He raised his glass to her.

She paused and finally, tentatively raised one hand to acknowledge him, her gloved fingers curling back into her palm slowly.

He tipped his chin slightly, and then he was turning away, smiling more broadly and laughing at something the woman had whispered in his ear. In an instant, he was lost in the crowd as he took the woman's hand and lead her toward the dance floor.

The moment was over before it had begun. He was gone.

The twisting loneliness tightened painfully around her stomach, her lungs, her heart as realization washed over her.

It was time to face the music; she was no longer his muse.

Forcefully, she pressed down the inner turmoil that threatened to overwhelm her. Her reaction was altogether too melodramatic, she scolded herself angrily. _That_ had been nothing more than a teenage fling that had ended _ten years_ ago.

She was a strong, successful woman. She had a meaningful career that deeply satisfied her and allowed time to explore her varied interests. She lived near lifelong friends she adored and got to see them frequently. She was in love with her best friend, a decorated war hero and Senior Auror.

But right then, the words didn't quite ring true.

Blinking, she pulled herself together, picked up her glass, and returned to her table.

Much of the next hour passed in a blur. She clenched her jaw, sipped her wine slowly, and smiled politely as Seamus and Ron complained about the new Ministry recruits and the Chudley Cannons. She barely heard a word they said. She flagged down a server and ordered a second glass of merlot.

The band was nearing the end of their after dinner set when they announced they would close with a series of three traditional Old Blood dances. This piqued Hermione's attention.

"We know these, Ronald!" she exclaimed, turning to him excitedly and setting down her empty glass. "Dance with me?"

He grinned and rubbed her arm. "Nah. I'm knackered. But you go ahead. Sea?" he asked his friend.

"Of course," Seamus said graciously, with a boyish smile. "Let's go on, then."

Hermione swallowed back her disappointment and nodded, standing with him. He lead her to the center of the room, where they stood and chatted for a few minutes on the half-full floor as others took their places around them.

The first dance would be the longest of the series. It was a collection of three ten minute sets, in which the dancers circled the room and the other couples in a complicated series of steps, artfully rotating to switch partners at two separate intervals.

Hermione had hated learning the traditional dances, scoffing at their antiquated nature as Ron and his mother had scowled at her. It wasn't her fault she had been born with two left feet.

But Hermione Granger would not be conquered by anything, and she had practiced for hours until her toes bled and her ankles had to be iced and wrapped. When Ron refused to practice with her anymore, she had hired a private tutor. She would show them all that her blood status said _nothing_ about her manners or her capabilities, damn it.

Seamus moved her gracefully through the first set as they talked easily about his new job as a Senior Recruiter for the Ministry. The dance required such concentration she had no time to dwell on her earlier encounter with _him_. For that, she was thankful.

The dancers switched partners. Her second partner was a middle-aged man who worked in the Minister's office. She recognized him but had forgotten his name. Their ten minute set was taken up with polite conversation as they got to know one another. He was self-deprecating in a charming way, and he made her laugh.

And then the dancers were whirling once again, and she was rotating quickly and delicately into the arms of her third partner- this was _fun_ , much better than sitting in one place for hours on end. She felt a hand scoop up hers to hold it aloft, and his other hand gently cupped the small of her back to lower them into their first dip, and she would recognize the feel of those long fingers anywhere, the tingling that had begun as soon as they'd made contact. He pulled her out of the low dip and she was face to face with him, his grey eyes _right there_ and baring into her as though no time at all had passed.

"Draco," she breathed.

"Mrs. Weasley," he nodded, his face a mask.

And suddenly, she remembered. Time _had_ passed. Ten years' worth. A lot happened in ten years' time.

He had heard. She swallowed thickly. And what else had she expected? It was all _The Daily Prophet_ had been able to talk about for months at the time. _War Heroes & Long Time Lovers Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley Finally Engaged!_ It had been enough to make her swear off the gossip column entirely.

She nodded as he moved her seamlessly through the familiar opening steps. Her thoughts were scattered. His hand on her back, her palm and fingers stretched taut against his- _bloody gloves_ , she swore- his long, lean, and overwhelming presence mere inches from her. Her head swam with a thousand different sensations.

"But that's old news," he was saying. "It's been a few years now, isn't that right?"

"Four," she answered faintly.

"A delayed congratulations, then," he nodded at her.

"Of course. And are you…?" she trailed off.

"No," he shook his head slightly. "Engaged, though. To Astoria Greengrass." He tipped his chin in the direction of his date, where she was dancing several yards away with Neville.

Hermione followed the direction of his look reluctantly. She felt herself stiffen slightly and knew he would too. Astoria Greengrass was just as gorgeous upon closer inspection. Her emerald eyes sparkled under a thick fringe of long black lashes, and she had a body that was simply poured into the clingy, silver-sequined dress.

Hermione swallowed again and looked back at Draco. He was staring at her. "Then congratulations to you, as well," she said jerkily.

They were silent for an uncomfortable amount of time as the set continued.

"You changed your hair," he noted.

She blinked, nodded. "Yes. Ron's mother found a few hair potions for me before…" she trailed off again.

"The wedding," he nodded, finishing her sentence. He frowned slightly. "I prefer the way you wore it when you were younger. Too much product."

Not _when we were together_ , or _when you worked at the bookshop_ , or even simply _before_. As though he'd erased that time from his memory.

"You shaved," she said bluntly. His jaw was quite well-defined without the scruff, but the skin just seemed too pale and shiny. It blunted his edge.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I manage the team at work now," he explained. He threw a nod in Astoria's direction. "Not to mention the Greengrasses are rather traditional, and I _am_ the Head of House Malfoy. Have to look presentable, you know."

She nodded faintly just before Malfoy dipped her once more. He was all elegance and a strong lead. Dancing with him was effortless.

As so much else had been.

When he pulled her back up, his eyes roamed her face. "I read your newest textbook on integrating Dark theory into Healer training." His eyes glinted with something like humor. "An interesting idea."

She blushed. "Then you know where I acquired most of my opinions."

"Hmm," he agreed, releasing her waist and raising her arm above her head to spin her as the dance called for. When she'd completed the maneuver, his hand seemed to settle back in place slightly lower, and she thought he may have pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. "Some might call that intellectual plagiarism."

She rolled her eyes, and before she could stop herself, she said, "Oh, like the _pioneering_ way you infused dried baneberry into the Antidote for Uncommon Poisons to enhance its potency."

She snapped her mouth shut and pursed her lips. She shouldn't have said that.

He stared at her for a moment. "You've followed my Potions research from the beginning then."

She shook her head impatiently. "No. I only heard about that recently. A Senior Healer mentioned its new applications in a focus group for the new curriculum."

That same corner of his mouth twitched again. Damn him; he saw right through her, as he always had. "My version of the Antidote hasn't been approved yet. It's been backlogged in the Department of International Magical Cooperation for years."

He spun her away from him and then tugged her back into his chest. This time she definitely felt him pull her closer.

"The only way you could know about it is one paper published in an obscure journal over eight years ago."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her mind scrambling for some excuse.

"As I said, you've followed my Potions research from the beginning," he repeated again, calm and unfazed.

Against her better judgment, she confirmed his theory. "Yes."

They were silent once more, their eyes locked as they moved together in perfect sync. Her body seemed to anticipate his every move.

A moment later, a stray thought crossed her mind. If she only knew for certain, it might clear her fuzzy head. It might make this night easier to bear the next morning. It might restrain the foolish thought that he'd continued to pull her closer as the dance went on.

Or maybe- if she could catch him off guard, she'd finally be able to read something in his guarded eyes.

"Someone said you had your tattoo removed," she breathed, studying him carefully.

He looked back unflinchingly and nodded once, with no hesitation. "I did," he replied casually.

That loneliness, that longing to change the past, roped once again around her lungs, and it squeezed.

They completed the remainder of the set in silence. She couldn't read his eyes anymore, and the thought made her deeply sad.

In the final move of the dance, she spun in circles as he rotated her behind him in a full circle. He dipped her one final time, as was the custom.

Yet contrary to custom, he dropped her much lower than he had previously. It was more daring, and she thought briefly that it felt like a resolution or an ending. His supporting hand slid upward to cradle her neck, fingers splayed widely. They buried into the soft baby hairs at her nape, and for just an instant, she thought his hand may have clenched reflexively around her curls. She closed her eyes as the memory of his touch melded seamlessly with the present moment.

And then he was yanking her up roughly, with much more force than necessary. The momentum tumbled her against his chest, out of breath, as his strong arms steadied her. His hands tightened on her upper arms and he stared down at her, his stormy eyes like chips of flint. They spoke a language she had forgotten.

Beneath his polished exterior, he reminded her of a caged animal. His eyes and his stance emanated a raw, pulsing hunger, barely controlled behind steel bars. His grip was beginning to hurt.

It sparked in her an equally powerful desire to move her hands over him, up his neck, into his hair. To give an outlet to the regret she felt inside. To feel _something_. Her fingers twitched against his broad chest.

Then his hands left her, and he was applauding politely, turning to face the stage, moving off to find Astoria for the next dance, no doubt. The loss of his touch was as cold and unrelenting as a northern winter.

She was breathless; light-headed. She needed air. Her eyes searched the room for an exit. A door leading to a balcony was propped open, and she moved purposefully in that direction.

Someone said he'd had his tattoo removed.

It was time to face the music; she was no longer his muse.

* * *

 _ **Ten years prior.**_

In another life, she would be his girl.

They'd keep all their promises, be them against the world.

It was the same argument every time. It was the only argument that wasn't playful, or witty, or light-hearted.

It was the only argument that was downright ugly.

It always started benignly enough. Hermione would throw herself at him for some reason or another, tackling him from behind, or racing across the room as he ducked his head to exit her floo, or rolling over on top of him after a nap. The reason was arbitrary. It was a thousand small things.

"God, I _love_ you," she would breath. "I can't believe how much. I just want to crawl inside your skin."

He would smile into her hair, or her shoulder, or her collarbone. "I know the feeling. I love you, too."

"Let's tell every single person we know. Let's scream it in the middle of Diagon Alley. Let's owl the _Prophet_. Let's go visit Azkaban and tell your father."

He would stiffen, pull away, redirect his eyes. "I'm not ready, Hermione. I've told you that."

On that Friday night in August it was over the laundry- literally.

Their last day at Flourish and Blotts had been earlier that week. She had settled on the details of her first trip abroad and would be leaving the next morning. Malfoy was helping her pack up her things and clean her flat, which she would be releasing at the end of the month. Her stuff was going into storage at The Burrow in Bill's empty room at the top of the house.

Draco would be starting a probationary period with the Magic Reversal Squad as a field assistant the following Monday.

His arms were filled with a tall bundle of clean laundry when he found her in the bedroom, eyeing her books critically in an effort to determine which ones to bring.

He dumped the pile on the bed. "Bloody Muggle clothes machine," he grumbled. "I don't know why you don't just wash them the _proper_ way." He had just started to sort the laundry into piles when she launched herself at him.

She shoved him down on top of her clean clothes and crawled on top of him, kissing him punishingly. His hands crept up under her shirt as his body stirred in response. She straddled his narrow waist and twisted her hands into his hair.

Quite a few minutes later, they were both out of breath, their foreheads pressed together. "That's a nice way to say thank you," he murmured.

"I- love- you," she growled possessively, punctuating each word with another kiss. "I love that you actually learned how to use a _Muggle clothes machine_ , and that you're _here_ , folding my laundry, of all things."

He chuckled. "Ditto all of that. Except for the bit about the clothes machine."

She settled in at his side. "I'm having breakfast with my parents tomorrow to say good-bye. Maybe you can come? I'd love to introduce you."

He stiffened, as he normally did. _Not tonight_ , he thought. Not on the eve of her departure... but he knew it was nearly inevitable. And he felt that growing guilt over his selfishness begin to churn in his stomach once again.

"Better not drop this on them right before you leave for four months," he said lightly.

" _Drop_ it on them?" She propped herself to face him. "What does _that_ mean?"

The fight was the worst they'd ever had. Draco desperately beat back the feeling of dread and reckoning that was crawling all over his skin, but he couldn't help think- _this is finally it._

She questioned him over and over about his reluctance to tell anyone about their relationship. She was needling and vicious. She was weepy and emotional. He grew colder and harder and more distant as the argument dragged on and on.

"You're ashamed of me," she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks as she hugged her knees where she was huddled in the laundry pile.

"No, I'm _not_ ," he growled furiously, clenching his hair. "Don't be stupid, Hermione."

She turned a hateful look at him, her eyes shooting daggers. "Yes, you are. You're ashamed of your Mudblood girlfriend with the dirty, worthless blood."

He towered over her and shoved a finger in her face. "How _dare_ you throw that back at me. You _know_ that shit is over. That was bitchy and beneath you."

"Then what is it? Am I too ugly? An obnoxious, insufferable know-it-all? Uncultured and boorish?" She shot each insult he'd doled out during their years at Hogwarts back at him like barbed arrows. "Why are you so ashamed of me?"

Finally he couldn't take it anymore. His own words, so familiar as they were hurled back at him, reminded him _once again_ of every single reason he didn't deserve her. " _Shut up_ , Granger!" he roared, stalking across the room. She stopped, taken aback, following him with her eyes.

"It's me, okay? It's _me_. It will _always_ be me who's the problem here. You're sleeping with an Ex-Death Eater arrested at 18 who's barely finished his _criminal sentence_ for betraying a school full of children to blood-thirsty monsters. I am responsible for the deaths of dozens of men, women, and children. I've propagated Pureblood garbage my entire life. Do you have any idea how _idiotic_ you are to still be with me?"

Her heart rate had picked up again as he shouted at her. Having her intelligence questioned was the one thing she would _not_ tolerate. Not from him.

She sprung to her feet. "Why don't you tell me how _idiotic_ I am, Malfoy," she retorted hotly. "So this is all a joke to you, then? We're _just_ sleeping together, right? Some meaningless lark until you get your life in order and find some nice girl who'll pick out china patterns with your precious mother?"

His eyes flashed dangerously. " Do _not_ mention my mother! You know nothing about her!"

She snapped then, throwing her hands above her head. " _Because you won't let me meet her!_ Can't introduce your Mudblood bit on the side, now can you? And apparently I've just been too _idiotic_ to see what was really going on the entire time."

She jumped when he slammed his fist against a wall. The plaster caved under the force and spiderwebbed into a dozen cracks. "I tell you I don't deserve you, and this is how you respond? I tell you I've carried this guilt in my _gut_ for the last year, and you throw it in my face _again_? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

She opened her mouth to tell him he hadn't quite put it like that, actually, when his next words stopped her in her tracks.

"I knew this couldn't work in the long run, but I was so _selfish._ I just wanted to keep you for as long as possible." He was cradling his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth. He wouldn't look at her. She felt panic began to claw through her as his words registered.

"Draco," she started. "You're angry. Take a minute to cool off."

He lifted his head. His face was that cold mask she'd come to despise. "You deserve better than me, Hermione. You have from day one. And if you can't see that… well, you'd be the only one. I can't let you throw your life away."

Hermione narrowed her eyes as he turned to leave her bedroom and head toward the front of her flat. "Bollocks!" she screeched, starting after him.

He refused to look back, walking purposefully for the door.

"Draco, you idiot, _wait_!" she choked out, a panicked sob caught in her throat. She glanced around and grabbed a small vase from her sideboard as he turned the knob. With every ounce of her strength and anger, she heaved it at the door as he opened it.

The white porcelain shattered and rained down as he slammed the door behind him.

He was gone.

She stared after him, the panic clawing higher, deeper, spreading like a curse through her petite frame. _What had he done?_ Her thoughts couldn't find purchase as they skittered through her mind like cherry blossom petals in the street. The image broke her, sending her scrabbling for the wall behind her as she collapsed, sinking to the floor.

What had _she_ done?

In another life, she would make him stay…

So she wouldn't have to say he was the one that got away.

* * *

She stood at the balcony and stared out at the expansive front lawn of the venue as she tugged off her gloves roughly and tucked them over the railing. The evening breeze grazed her face, forcing her thoughts to slow. Forcing her blood to cool. She sucked in a deep breath of the night air, feeling her lungs widen and release gently.

Behind her, the second traditional dance was building in fervor. She recognized the melodious notes of Liszt's _Liebestraum No. 1_. "Dream of love." To her disgust, rogue tears pricked her eyes.

This mess of an evening would come to a close soon enough, just like every other night. She would go home with her husband and remind herself of everything she loved about his sweet, relaxed nature, the warm security of his friendship. She would throw herself tirelessly into her new project. Life would go back to normal.

She would set aside each of the emotions that had been dragged up so unexpectedly. That was all it was, really- she was caught up in the shock of seeing him again after so long. She would set each memory aside deliberately and individually, if need be. Lock them up and throw away the key.

She just had to get through the rest of the night.

She sighed deeply, brushing at her eyes, and turned around to head back inside.

He was standing not ten feet behind her, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand and the other in his pocket. She flinched involuntarily with surprise.

"Startle easily?" he asked softly. He walked forward, joining her in the shadows at the railing. His eyes never left hers.

Silently, he held out the glass. She took it, swirling the liquid. Firewhiskey. A sad smile creased her face.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked conversationally, coming up to stand beside her.

She shrugged. "All the people. Crowds exhaust me."

"Do they," he asked drily. Skeptically.

She was silent as she sipped the whiskey. She didn't look at him. Finally, she repeated his question. "What are _you_ doing out here?"

He parroted her answer. "All the people. Crowds exhaust me."

She made a face at him.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "At least the answer makes sense for me. You thrive on people."

His casual, almost careless knowledge of her wanted to jerk her directly into the past. She resisted its lure.

He propped an elbow against the railing as he faced her. "So. How have you been?"

She stared down at her glass. How could she answer that? Anything she'd say could only be idle small talk between old acquaintances. The realization that that was what they were now was like rubbing salt in an open wound. Small talk was exactly appropriate for their current reality.

She forced herself to begin. "Good. I've actually managed to piece together a career as an independent researcher. I've gotten to travel, publish, lecture… And with the last few books, I've started to get a lot more requests for curriculum design." She paused. "McGonagall reached out to me last week. She wants to get together to discuss some changes to Hogwarts' course offerings."

That had been a huge break. Years ago, they'd spent hours daydreaming about changes they'd make at Hogwarts. She didn't know if he remembered.

He did. When she glanced at him, he was staring at her with something like pride in his eyes. "I'm not at all surprised to hear that. That's wonderful," he said with genuine warmth.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. This was harder than she could ever have imagined. Before tonight she'd been able to remember them only as they'd once been. Tonight would usurp that forever.

She longed to once again take him for granted at the end of every day; to spill out these stories in an endless stream of chatter, tangled in his arms on the couch, or the rug, or their sloppy bed in some small flat in Muggle London. Not over a five minute drink at a charity ball.

What she would give to tell him- right this instant- she'd be his secret for as long as he needed; that there was absolutely nothing for them to be ashamed of. That she was brilliantly proud of his intelligence, his growth, his humility. That she'd wait for him until he believed that to his core or forever, whichever came first. All that she should have told him on the night he left.

"And Weasley? How's married life?" he asked, his tone still friendly. Guarded.

The truth hit her in the stomach. The past is set as stone. You don't get to alter history.

She would never get to say those words. She would never experience his daily presence in her life again.

"Fine. He's fine. Doing well at work." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We get to see Harry, Ginny, and James a lot. She's due with her second any day now."

"And do you two have kids?"

"Oh- no." She shook her head quickly. Too quickly.

When she glanced at him again, he was searching her silhouette, a small frown puckering his brow. He glanced away.

"And how are you and Astoria? Happy?"

"We are. She's an excellent match, of course. My mother's thrilled." His eyes shot back to her sharply. "They've already picked out the china pattern."

Was he goading her?

She pressed her lips together in a thin line. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

It made no difference whatsoever. All of this… it inevitably lead nowhere. They were simply waiting for Godot.

"How did you two meet?" she asked vacantly.

"A dinner party. The Parkinsons introduced us."

"Ah. And the date?"

"Not set yet. Probably not for another year."

The silence stretched on for another moment. He spotted her gloves on the railing beside her. "White gloves…" his voice trailed off, a hint of amusement there under his words. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"We're different people now, aren't we?"' she muttered. "Things change."

His eyes were on her again. Damn Slytherins and their perceptive gaze. Always searching for something just beneath the surface.

After a long silence, she saw his mouth tighten into a frown from the corner of her eye. "I suppose that's true."

She was torturing herself. What were they doing out here, playing at being old chums? There was nothing to be said but this brainless chatter; they were just strangers now. Old classmates. She needed to go back inside and ask her husband if they could leave.

She threw back the rest of her whiskey quickly and turned toward the door. "Thanks for the drink, Malfoy. I'm going back inside."

She started to walk away when he reached out and grabbed her wrist loosely. "Granger, wait." His thumb skimmed her palm in an entirely too familiar way. She drew in a sharp intake of breath at the pleasure of his unexpected touch as she stared down at his hand.

He quickly released her. She looked back up at him as he strode forward to stand in front of her.

He'd finally dropped his mask. She stared in wonder as his face flashed with a myriad of raw emotions she remembered intimately. She allowed some of what she'd been feeling that night to seep through into her eyes, as well.

They stood silently, not touching but barely a foot apart apart, as they measured one another with their gaze. She realized with a start that this was no longer the boy from her youth. The skinny kid who'd feigned at being bored, self-important, aloof, who'd all along nursed a devastating self-hatred, had _grown up_.

He stood before her now, broad, rooted, quietly self-possessed, and very sure of himself. He cut a powerful figure in his fine robes. Draco Malfoy was the image of poised assurance, radiating a deeply settled confidence about who he was and what he wanted, and she felt herself instantly aroused by the man before her and not the memory. It was as though her body was awakening after a long slumber; each pore flared painfully at his nearness.

He moistened his lips to speak. Her gaze flashed down to his mouth and then back to his eyes.

He snapped his mouth shut and took another careful step forward. "Hermione," he amended, his voice low and reverent. His eyes darkened slightly as he spoke her given name.

Her breath was shallow. "Yes?" she asked, her voice straining. _Touch me_ , she begged him in her mind. _Please. Just once. Just one more kiss._

Something she didn't like at all hardened resolutely in his eyes. She watched as his face shuttered once more. "I'll walk you back inside."

She was a foolish, nostalgic woman. There was nothing this man could offer her. Their paths had diverged a long time ago.

The fluttering in her chest, the breathlessness, the heat in her veins- it all instantly molded together in a cold knot in her stomach.

 _In another life, I would be your girl._

 _We keep all our promises, be us against the world._

 _In another life, I would make you stay._

 _So I don't have to say you were the one that got away._

 _The one that got away._

They entered the ballroom together. As they crossed the threshold, it was as though they were returning to the present from a single moment wholly outside of time, beyond the reach of the past, present, or future. The lights, the murmur of the crowd, the bustling servers methodically clearing the tables- it assaulted them.

"Mione!" Ron said jovially as he spotted her from across the room. He walked toward her, holding up her dress robe. "I've got your robe. Ready to leave?"

"I suppose this is goodbye, _Mione_ ," Draco murmured behind her, cocking one eyebrow loftily. She shot him a withering look over her shoulder. A ghost of a smile crossed his face briefly.

Ron looked at them curiously as he approached. "Malfoy! Long time, no see, man. Were you both just outside? What for?"

Draco answered smoothly. "I was grilling Granger about the new Healer training curriculum she's been enlisted to design at St. Mungo's. I've seen the proposal and wanted to negotiate for a larger segment on accidental magic." As she looked at him in surprise, one eyebrow twitched upward briefly as he glanced back at her.

Ron wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. "Can't call her that anymore, Malfoy- she's a Weasley now, had you heard?" Hermione closed her eyes.

Draco's face was as unreadable as stone. "I had, in fact. Four years now, correct?"

Ron rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Gotta tell you man, after your first year, they all start to blend together. Sometimes it feels like a decade or more."

Draco turned to her, his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. His grey eyes locked on hers. "Granger. Has it felt like a decade for you?" he asked softly. She read the meaning of his question as she searched his gaze once more.

He didn't look away, even as Ron slapped him on the arm and corrected him. "Weasley. Weasley, not Granger."

She nearly forgot the question as she began to rediscover the shifting depths of his grey eyes. It would take her hours- days- to learn them again. She had mere seconds. Finally, she answered, so quietly she wasn't sure he could hear her. "Longer. A lifetime. But tonight… tonight it's felt like no time at all."

He studied her and refused to break his gaze.

"Well, we should be going," Ron said as he held open Hermione's robe to help her into it. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

Malfoy watched Hermione shrug into the garment. He looked contemplative. Finally, he extended one hand toward Ron for a firm handshake and bowed over it. "Pleasure to see you tonight."

Then he turned toward Hermione. She was startled when he rested his other hand flush against her waist to lean in and place a dry peck on one cheek and then the other. "Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," he murmured against her skin. The words were all wrong on his lips. God, _his lips_.

To her horror, she felt her eyes flutter shut. And just as Draco began to pull away, she twitched forward quite obviously with a deep and silent inhale. It took all her willpower to keep from brushing her cheek against his.

As he removed himself, she felt the loss of his proximity to her very bones.

Ron barked a laugh. "How much did you drink tonight? You can barely keep your balance, Mi." He rolled his eyes at Draco. "Women and their alcohol, am I right? This one sure likes her red wine."

The last thing she saw as her lids flew open and she allowed Ron to tow her away was his eyes burning into her. She felt a long dormant heat crawling straight up through her core and into her neck, her cheeks.

They were walking toward the door when Ron chucked lowly and leaned in toward his wife. "Still a pompous git. Who does a formal goodbye anymore?" He shook his head with an amused grin. "Right stuffy bastard. Glad we only have to deal with two of them nowadays."

Hermione glanced behind her as they exited the room. His eyes still followed her with an intensity she couldn't read as the distance between them widened.

Her waist pulsed where his hand had rested, ever so lightly, for barely an instant. The memory of their bodies in sync with one another during their short dance burned like Fiendfyre in her skin. Her hands against his chest. His fingers buried ever so briefly in her hair. How long would it burn? How long before the memory of his touch on her body would fade once again?

As she undressed for bed that night, a small slip of parchment fell out of her dress' sash when she removed it from her waist. She stared at it in shock, her heart racing. There were ten numbers printed neatly on the paper.

A phone number.

She would recognize the handwriting anywhere.

* * *

She waited exactly one month to call him. She used a plain Muggle pay-as-you-go phone, and told herself half a dozen different reasons why. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely think. She'd thought about this moment enough over the past four weeks, however.

Thought about it. Questioned it. Wrestled with it. Fought it. But finally relented to it, knowing that for her, the decision had been made when he'd yanked her into his arms at the end of their dance.

Her hands shook as she entered the numbers from the parchment. She'd incinerated it the day after the ball, having committed it to memory.

"Hello?" His posh voice answered on the first ring. It was calm; collected. She could hear the barest note of his smug drawl. But there was _something else_... curiosity, or perhaps… sternly regulated anticipation.

'Yes, hello," he repeated firmly. That _something_ was stronger now.

"Hi," she said softly.

On the day they were to meet for coffee in Muggle London, she didn't put a taming potion in her hair for the first time since her and Ron's engagement. Her curls floated freely around her shoulders as she slowly spread lotion across her forearms. She stared at herself in the mirror absently. She looked... younger. More carefree.

Ron wrinkled his nose as he poked his head in the bathroom to say good-bye. "Not going out today, I suppose?" he asked, his eyes flickering to her wild mass of curls.

She shrugged. "No point in bothering with it."

"Well have a good day then," he said as he brushed his lips against her cheek drily and headed toward the floo.

When Draco arrived at the small outdoor cafe where they were to meet, he pulled out his seat and sat down without greeting her. She stared at him as he tugged in his chair, set down his wallet, adjusted his tie, and absently touched the thigh holster where she knew he kept his wand. When he finally met her eyes across the table, they were hard steel and as guarded as ever.

He scratched the rough stubble of his five o'clock shadow. "Hello," he offered bluntly.

"Hi," she replied with a flicker of humor in her eyes. "You didn't shave."

"No I didn't. And I see you left off that god-awful hair potion."

"I did."

He picked up his menu and scanned the lunch specials. The weather was starting to turn warmer now that it was June, and he'd cuffed his sleeves to just below his elbows.

As she glanced at his well-toned forearms, she noticed his Death Eater tattoo was missing. The skin of his left arm was smooth and bare. Her heart stuttered to a halt and she suddenly forgot how to breath.

She hadn't asked _which_ tattoo he'd had removed.

Without looking at her, he said casually, "You look well."

"Thank you," she replied a beat too late, her voice just the slightest bit shaky. "As do you."

As she picked up her own menu, she felt his foot press distinctly against hers beneath the table. A moment passed, and then two, and still he didn't move it away. She swallowed thickly as her stomach clenched.

Whatever it was she was doing- and in her addled mind, she hadn't yet decided that- she knew it was dangerous. But she was so damn lonely. She felt folded up inside like all her vigor and purpose had slowly been pressed out of her over the past six years.

Whatever it was, it was not only dangerous. It was wrong, pure and simple.

But she would do anything- _anything_ \- to fix the past.

 _...so I don't have to say you were the one that got away._

 _The one that got away._


End file.
